


Grand Alliance

by second_skin



Series: Mystrade Forever (Romance) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Lestrade is a Good Man, M/M, Mycroft is a Good Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:38:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>At work, Greg often provides comfort. At home, he receives it.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grand Alliance

**Author's Note:**

> _Posted previously under old pseud; reposting under new._

He couldn't believe it was past ten p.m. already. A hellish day by any measure, but it was almost over. Seemed it had gone by in a flash--but at the same time, he felt as if he'd been away from home for months. He discovered that he couldn't trudge up the two flights of stairs without making a conscious effort to focus on grasping the banister and lifting one foot and then the other until he reached the landing. The door was open just a crack and the smell of Chinese takeaway, including his favorite dumplings, greeted him.

 

Mycroft had already arrived. Brought food. His umbrella and raincoat were hanging on a brass hook in the front hallway. Greg felt his throat tighten for a moment, and unexpectedly, a few tears of relief escaped one eye before he quickly brushed them away.

Mycroft was clattering around in the kitchen now, looking for clean forks and plates. Greg had barely been home during the past two weeks, except to catch one or two fitful hou rs of sleep each night and change clothes. He had left quite a mess of unwashed cups and forks and takeaway bags and boxes scattered about. But tonight My wouldn't scold or complain. And he would already know everything. Greg wouldn't have to explain. Nor would Mycroft feel the need to watch the news coverage on television, since he had his own minions updating him by text and email in detailed fashion.

Greg couldn't bear to see the press conference he had just finished replayed on the screen. Couldn't look at the smiling photos of the three young men killed early this morning as they raided the bomber's basement flat. All dead because D. I. Lestrade had given the okay. Into the phone, he had said simply, "Yeah. Now." Jesus, if he'd only said "No. Wait. Not yet."

He had thought the pre-dawn timing would be safest. Thought they'd surprise the bastard, cuff him, collect the evidence, and send him and his partner to solitary confinement for the next fifty years.

But it wasn't a surprise. It was a blood bath. The primary suspect had shot himself after killing the first three coppers who broke down the door. At least they had captured the partner and found two rooms full of evidence.

That was something.

But not worth three of his best men gone, five fatherless kids, and three grieving wives. Lestrade had met those kids. It was his fault their dads were not coming home tonight.

Seemed like nothing but a fucking, fucking waste.

Greg took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen. Mycroft looked up from rinsing forks and spoons, and smiled. Lestrade put his hand gently on Mycroft's shoulder and nodded a hello, saying only, "I'm going to shower before I eat. Okay?"

"Fine. Whenever you're ready," said Mycroft, handing Greg a glass of whisky that had been poured as soon as My saw the police car arrive out front.

Greg downed the drink as he walked to the bedroom to get undressed. Within a couple of minu tes he was standing in the shower, water turned up as hot and strong as he could stand it, almost burning his skin. He hadn't turned on the lights, so the bathroom was dark, with just a glimpse of a glowing bedside lamp visible through the partially open door to the bedroom. Greg scrubbed his hair and body roughly, trying to remove every trace of the day. Then he splayed both his hands against the white tile wall and leaned forward, letting the scalding spray pummel his face and chest. His features were contorted, and he felt suddenly as if he were choking. Tears mixed indistinguishably with the soapy streams running down his cheeks and chin.

He heard Mycroft tuning the kitchen radio to some sort of classical music, probably trying to ignore the occasional sobs and profanities coming from the bathroom. A few months ago, My would have tried to soothe Greg, would have tried to touch him or talk to him, but he knew better now.

Eventually Greg stepped out of the sh ower, a tiny smile glancing over his lips as he recognized that My had left one of his own enormous white towels neatly folded by the sink. He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked back into the bedroom to find pyjamas and a clean t-shirt. Just one left. He'd have to find time for laundry tomorrow.

As he dressed, Greg thought about Mycroft, and how everyone they knew from Scotland Yard to the diplomatic corps liked to poke fun at them as the "odd couple." _Posh and Pedestrian._ Mycroft was high tea on silver platters and Lestrade was fish 'n' chips in yesterday's newspaper. They all thought it was hilarious. Even John and Sherlock made jokes--as if those two had any room to talk.

But what Greg had realized over the past few months was that he and Mycroft were--not on the surface, but on a much deeper level--the same kind of men. They both felt the weight of their responsibilities to be almost unbearable at times. On days like today--or days when Mycroft knew that his actions had put not three, but possibly hundreds or thousands of innocent people at risk--they understood each other most profoundly.

Words had no great value now, but whatever small comforts might be helpful, Mycroft would provide without being asked.

Greg sat down to eat, finding another drink already poured and a plate of dumplings and some unidentifiable but tasty dish of pork and hot peppers in front of him. Mycroft sipped his wine and picked at his food. He asked no questions and made no comments beyond, "Is that hot enough?" and "Another drink?" Lestrade silently accepted one more drink, hoping it would help him sleep, but not leave him fuzzy and useless in the morning.

When Greg's mobile rang the first time, Mycroft picked it up and efficiently shooed the reporter away, promising a statement from the D. I. tomorrow. When it rang the second time, showing Sally Donovan on the line, Mycroft delivered the phone to Greg and left the room while they talked.

When they had finished eating, My put the plates in the sink, not bothering to scrape or rinse them. He stepped behind Greg, who sat at the table finishing his drink, and for the first time that night, ventured a touch. My kissed the top of Greg's head and then began slowly pushing fingertips through his hair from the nape of his neck to his forehead, eliciting a quiet moan as Lestrade let his head drop forward to his chest, feeling the exhaustion of weeks without enough sleep overcome him all at once.

"Come on, Greg. Bed," said Mycroft softly.

Mycroft pulled back the covers and arranged the pillows just so before Greg climbed in. Then My spent a few minutes getting himself ready before slipping in beside Greg and pulling him close. Mycroft pushed his hands up under Greg's t-shirt and drew random patterns on his back, occasionally stopping to kiss the base of his neck or his shoulder, until Greg's breathing became peaceful and re gular, and the day was finally over.

****

When he was sure Greg was fast asleep, Mycroft padded back to the kitchen to tidy up and make sure there was coffee and bread and honey for the morning. Then he called Anthea to check on the five British aid workers who were still being held in North Korea, and dictated another letter to the Chinese ambassador, humbly pleading for his help.

Finally, Mycroft turned off the lights, locked the door, and crawled back into bed, tucking his head under Greg's chin and letting the sound of his heartbeat and the gentle up-and-down motion of his chest carry him down with Greg into a deep sleep.

 

 


End file.
